I tell myself, I’ve read too much into the ramblings of a nineteenth century gothic author. Bram Stoker never intended Dracula to be taken literally, but perhaps he never believed in the historic origins of the notes he compiled.
Somehow, Stoker stumbled upon the journal entries of Jonathan Harker, Mina Murray, Professor Van Helsing and Dr. Seward. For him, this was a fantastic tale and he played with the possibilities, elaborating on what must have seemed to be incoherent ramblings at times. The idea that evil walks through the centuries, transcending generations, must have been intoxicating on the cusp of a new age. Such tales are a throwback to the superstitions of the dark ages, a time before scientific enlightenment. To Stoker, the rough notes must have been tantalizing, almost romantic in their allure.
My boots halt on the wooden steps leading to the front door.
I’m Renfield, delirious, mad at the prospect of meeting the prince of the undead.
I am Jonathan Harker, reluctant to confront the Count.
And yet it is the lament of Van Helsing that sits heavy in my heart. This evil is such that it can lay dormant for generations, defeating us with the mere passage of time, if nothing else.
My gloved hand, clenched tight in a fist, pauses an inch from the wooden door in anticipation of an age old confrontation between good and evil playing out once again. I should wait. I should take a police officer inside with me, but they wouldn’t understand. That was Fallon’s problem, or should I say, Eva’s once she was displaced into the body of a killer. I check my phone for any last messages, and activate the audio recorder, wanting to capture an electronic recording of the vampire.
With determination and a sense of authority I don’t rightly have, I knock on the door.
A women cracks open the heavy wooden door, hiding behind a security chain.
“Can I help you?”
“Jasmine Halter?” I ask, holding up my ID. It’s not a police badge, but it does have the state seal and a photograph on it. To an untrained eye, it should be intimidating. “My name is Jane Langford. I’m working with the police, investigating the death of your neighbor.”
“I thought it was suicide,” Jasmine replies, sounding defensive.
“Oh, it was,” I say, trying to dismiss any suspicion on her part. “Tragic. And yet even in heartbreaking circumstances like these, there’s a standard process we follow, gathering background information from associates for statistical purposes in the hope we can recognize trigger events and prevent future tragedies.”
Jasmine nods, but I’m not sure she’s convinced, so I add, “Paperwork and procedure—they’re tedious, but that’s police work for you.”
“So young,” Jasmine says, opening the door and letting me in. “And with such a young family.”
“Yes,” I reply. I feel as though social norms demand we avoid eye contact, if only for a moment so as to make each other feel more at ease given the grave subject, but neither of us look away. Neither of us trusts the other.
Jasmine Halter is petite, probably in her early forties. She appears quiet and unassuming, and is soft spoken, with tender blue eyes. It’s hard to realize I am staring into the face of death as I smile politely and say, “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Jasmine leads me into an open plan living room with a vast, modern kitchen at the rear. The home is lavishly furnished, with a leather couch, leather recliner, and a massive flat screen television. Heat radiates from the vents throughout the house.
I make small talk. “So, what are you and your family doing on this chilly Saturday afternoon?”
“Oh,” Jasmine replies with a warm smile as she adds water to a coffee machine. “Bill and the kids are at the mall shopping for Christmas presents.”
There were no tire tracks outside. The snow in front of the garage was pristine and untouched. My heart sinks at the realization they’re already dead.
“Coffee?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling politely.
Jasmine turns her back to me, opening a cupboard and reaching for a coffee mug. I stuff my gloves in my pocket and pull out the Colt 45. Jasmine stops, pausing when she hears the sound of the safety clicking into the off position. She knows.
“Well,” she says, still smiling as she turns to face me. “This isn’t standard police procedure, now is it?”
“These aren’t your everyday murders,” I say in reply, trying to keep my hand steady as I level the gun at her.
“And how are you going to explain this?” she asks. “Are you willing to go to jail for twenty years for killing me in cold blood?”
There are no pretenses left between us.
“I’m counting on there being bodies in the upstairs bedroom,” I say, summoning my courage.
Jasmine laughs, smiling with what can only be described as unbridled wickedness, but I will not be deterred. I came here for answers as well as justice.
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?” she replies, pointing at herself. “My name is legion, for we are many.”
And my blood runs cold at her casual use of a plural pronoun.
“Stay back,” I cry, pointing my gun as though it were a wooden stake about to pierce her heart, but she walks calmly around the countertop, retrieving a large kitchen knife from a wooden block.
“Put it down,” I say, backing up and keeping plenty of distance between us.
“This?” she says. “Don’t worry about this. I’m not going to kill you with a knife. No, that would be too easy. I think I’ll use that gun you’re holding instead.”
With a wicked smile, she says, “This is just a little insurance. Evidence.”
“It’s over,” I say, raising the handgun and holding it steady at arm’s length, aiming for the center of her chest. “Take one more step and I’ll fire.”
“Oh, I’m counting on you pulling that trigger,” she says, calling my bluff and edging forward as I step back, bumping into a coffee table. As much as I try, I can’t hide the fear racing through my veins.
Jasmine says, “You didn’t really think a mere handgun would kill me, did you?”
There’s no more than ten feet between us and she has a knife. The time for words is over. I grip the gun with both hands, cupping my left hand beneath the right, and fire rapidly. The gun kicks with each shot, and I have to fight to keep the gun down and on target.
The gunfire is deafening. The first shot catches her in the center of the chest, plunging into her sternum, the second lands high and to the right, tearing through her shoulder. The third leaves a bloody mess at the base of her throat, but the heart. I have to hit the heart, and multiple times.
Jasmine drops the knife in an involuntary spasm as bullets tear through her body. Somehow, she still has the strength to lunge at me. She reels with the impact of each bullet, staggering forward as I back away. By the time I’m squeezing off the fourth round, her hand is reaching for my Colt 45. Her fingers brush against my wrist in a feeble attempt to grab the gun, but her chest is exposed. I push the handgun hard into her ribs as I fire again in rapid succession. Five, six, seven rounds lash out of the barrel, and she collapses backwards. Eight, nine, ten. I advance on her as I fire, shooting down into the center of her bloody chest, destroying the heart as she writhes on the floor in agony.
Her body shudders with each thundering impact, and yet still she reaches for me.
I have no pity for this wretched creature. She lies awkwardly on the bloodstained carpet with one leg bent behind her and her head twisted unnaturally to the side, and yet she still clings to the last vestiges of life. With outstretched hands clawing at the air, she struggles to breathe.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Her eyes haunt me.
I can see the vale of death descending, the looming awareness that these are her final fleeting seconds of life. There’s heartache, hurt, astonishment and disbelief in her eyes.
Words form on her lips, but no sound comes forth, and suddenly, the change comes over her. Whereas moments be
fore, life animated this complex arrangement of molecules we call a body, now she is inert, as lifeless as the coffee table beside her.
Outside, blue and red lights break through the gloom. A female police officer stands beside the window staring in. I’m not sure how long she’s been there, but she sees me holding the gun as I stand over the body.
How am I going to explain this? No one will believe what has happened? Do I lie? How much should I distort the facts to protect myself?
I toss the gun on the couch and raise my hands, clasping them behind my head so there’s no misunderstanding. Two police officers come bursting through the front door.
“Jane?” one of them cries, but I don’t recognize her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Liz,” I reply, shortening the name on her badge from the more formal Elizabeth.
Liz leads me to one side, away from the dead body, saying, “What the hell happened here?”
“It’s a long story.”
She says, “We’re going to need to take a formal statement from you. Remain here while we secure the crime scene.”
“Okay.”
There are four police officers in the house now, but they’re all quite relaxed around me even though there’s a dead body bleeding out on the carpet. One of them bags the Colt handgun and then moves on to bag the knife as evidence. Several officers talk into their radios, providing updates to command. Outside, two more squad cars pull up.
“Check upstairs,” I say to one of the officers standing in the open doorway. “You’ll find three bodies in the bedroom. A man and two children. A boy and a girl.”
Boots pound up the stairs.
I’m exhausted.
Damn, that was close.
No one’s been able to get that close to me since Jonathan Harker.
I lean back on a low dresser, half sitting on it.
“You’re shaking,” Liz says.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to put on a brave face. I can’t look too happy, but I need to look relieved. From here on out, I’ve got to avoid attention. What should have been a simple bait-and-switch in the gas station became all too complicated when the damn gun ran out of bullets. Jane almost had me, but after seventeen thousand years, I’ve learned what it means to be a survivor.
Transitions are always smoother when the switch dies immediately, as it did this afternoon, and as it did in the foothills of the Carpathian mountains when I sacrificed the frame of the Count to become Jonathan Harker. Like Jane, he too couldn’t fathom what happened in those critical few seconds. On that grey, overcast day, I slit his throat and denied him the chance to cry aloud and spoil my escape. Quincy Morris then plunged a dagger deep into his heart, destroying that old body and turning it to ash.
I need to keep a low profile, but to indulge in the taste of life is ecstasy. Death is a drug, and I cannot deny myself. But for now, I must move on.
“How did you know?” Liz asks, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Lucky guess,” I say. “Just following a hunch.”
My mind is elsewhere. A thousand voices crowd my head, screaming to be heard. Patience, my friends. We are nearly there. It is but seven hundred years until our rescue arrives and we can flee this accursed planet.
“You did a good job,” Liz says, and I look up, being dragged back into the moment by her presence. I can hear the soft rhythm of her heart beating. I can smell the sweet scent of her sweat glands responding to a rush of adrenalin. I can almost taste her life force in the air. I long to feed again, but for now, I must disappear.
“Let’s get you back to the station.”
As we walk from the room, I glance back to see dead eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. Poor Jane. She never stood a chance.
The End
Afterword
Thank you for taking a chance on Vampire. I hope you enjoyed this remake on a classic horror story.
You can find the sequel on Amazon under the name We Are Legion.
I love the classics. From Voltaire’s Micromegas to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or from Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth to H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, there is no shortage of inspiring stories to draw upon in history.
I’ve always seen Bram Stoker’s Dracula as an allegory for the old European world of myth and superstition struggling against the advent of a new scientific world. It’s not soldiers or adventurous heroes that expose this evil, but a couple of doctors caring for a sick patient. It is not superhuman strength that eventually defeats the Count, but rather average men and women rising to the challenge.
In reinterpreting Dracula, I wanted to steer away from the obvious bloodsucking vampire that has become so cliché in our culture. Instead, I wanted to explore the subtleties that made Dracula a classic—the moody, oppressive evil, the sense of helplessness, the confusion and fear of the unknown. I hope Vampire has restored some of the mystique to Dracula.
The excerpts from Bram Stoker’s Dracula have been used under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License. Dracula, along with tens of thousands of other classics, can be downloaded from Gutenberg for free.
http://www.gutenberg.org/
If this story is popular with readers, I’ll develop it into a series. I hope you’ve enjoyed this short story, please post a review online and tell a friend. Help spread the word.
Proof reading was provided by Pikko’s House out of Hawaii and Ellen Campbell, with the final edit provided by Andrea Beatrice Reed.
Thank you for supporting independent writing.

We Are Legion
Other books by Peter Cawdron
Thank you for supporting independent science fiction. You might enjoy the following novels also written by Peter Cawdron.
WHAT WE LEFT BEHIND & ALL OUR TOMORROWS
Hazel is a regular teenager growing up in an irregular world overrun with zombies. She likes music, perfume, freshly baked muffins, and playing her Xbox—everything that no longer exists in the apocalypse.
Raised in the safety of a commune, Hazel rarely sees Zee anymore, except on those occasions when the soldiers demonstrate the importance of a headshot to the kids.
To her horror, circumstances beyond her control lead her outside the barbed wire fence and into a zombie-infested town.
“Five, Four, Three, Two—count your shots, Haze,” she says to herself, firing at the oncoming zombie horde. “Don’t forget to reload.”
ALIEN SPACE TENTACLE PORN
A 1950s hospital. Temporary amnesia. A naked man running through Central Park yelling something about alien space tentacles. Tinfoil, duct tape, and bananas. These are the ingredients for a spectacular romp through a world you never thought possible as aliens reach out and make contact with Earth.
MY SWEET SATAN
The crew of the Copernicus is sent to investigate Bestla, one of the remote moons of Saturn. Bestla has always been an oddball, orbiting Saturn in the wrong direction and at a distance of fifteen million miles, so far away that Saturn appears smaller than Earth’s moon in the night sky. Bestla hides a secret. When mapped by an unmanned probe, Bestla awakes and begins transmitting a message, only it’s a message no one wants to hear: “I want to live and die for you, Satan.”
SILO SAGA: SHADOWS
Shadows is fan fiction set in Hugh Howey’s Wool universe as part of the Kindle Worlds Silo Saga.
Life within the silos follows a well-worn pattern passed down through the generations from master to apprentice, caster to shadow. “Don’t ask! Don’t think! Don’t question! Just stay in the shadows.” But not everyone is content to follow the past.
THE WORLD OF KURT VONNEGUT: CHILDREN’S CRUSADE
Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece Slaughterhouse-Five: The Children’s Crusade explored the fictional life of Billy Pilgrim as he stumbled through the real world devastation of Dresden during World War II. Children’s Crusade picks up the story of Billy Pilgrim on the planet of Tralfamadore as Billy and his partner Montana Wildhack st
ruggle to accept life in an alien zoo.
THE MAN WHO REMEMBERED TODAY
The Man Who Remembered Today is a novella originally appearing in From the Indie Side anthology, highlighting independent science fiction writers from around the world. You can pick up this story as a stand-alone novella or get twelve distinctly unique stories by purchasing From the Indie Side.
Kareem wakes with a headache. A bloody bandage wrapped around his head tells him this isn’t just another day in the Big Apple. The problem is, he can’t remember what happened to him. He can’t recall anything from yesterday. The only memories he has are from events that are about to unfold today, and today is no ordinary day.
ANOMALY
Anomaly examines the prospect of an alien intelligence discovering life on Earth.
Humanity’s first contact with an alien intelligence is far more radical than anyone has ever dared imagine. The technological gulf between humanity and the alien species is measured in terms of millions of years. The only way to communicate is by using science, but not everyone is so patient with the arrival of an alien spacecraft outside the gates of the United Nations in New York.
THE ROAD TO HELL
The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
How do you solve a murder when the victim comes back to life with no memory of recent events?
In the twenty-second century, America struggles to rebuild after the second civil war. Democracy has been suspended while the reconstruction effort lifts the country out of the ruins of conflict. America’s fate lies in the hands of a genetically engineered soldier with the ability to move through time.
The Road to Hell deals with a futuristic world and the advent of limited time travel. It explores social issues such as the nature of trust and the conflict between loyalty and honesty.
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